


The Dragon of New York

by rexthranduil



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Crime!AU, Goodbye British Accents... I shall honour thee, Lee is an FBI Agent, M/M, So is Richard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-12 04:02:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexthranduil/pseuds/rexthranduil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lee 'Grinner' Pace is an FBI Agent. Richard Armitage is a recently recovered Profiler. Both smart as heck, with messed up pasts and secrets to hide, they find themselves having to get over their instant dislike in order to catch a smart, methodical, slightly fire-obsessed murderer. The only problem is, Richard wants revenge for the death of his partner seven years ago, and Lee has ties to the killer that could make or break him and everything he's worked for in his entire life...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

_“The most loving parents and relatives commit murder with smiles on their faces. They force us to destroy the person we really are: a subtle kind of murder.”_  ~ Jim Morrison.

* * *

He was seven when the first whispers that something was ‘different’, was ‘wrong’ with him reached his impressionable young mind. Always the quiet but friendly child, forever asking his family questions about this and that, learning that the things he asked about were _“just downright terrifying, I mean what kind of kid asks about death and murder at the age of seven?”_ provided a sharp, painful revelation that his queries were not acceptable.

He was supposed to play with dinosaurs, play soccer and little league, pull girls hair and talk about ‘cooties’ not hunt down the True Crimes section in the local library. He was supposed to do his homework with his dad and tidy his room, play his video games and tease his siblings.

But that wasn’t him. He wasn’t like everyone else, didn’t feel like the things everyone else did were natural. Learning about nature, reading Shakespeare and thinking about why people did bad things, were natural to him - they were normal. Why couldn’t people see that there wasn’t anything wrong with him? He wasn’t broken. He was just curious. He wanted to know things, know everything about everything.

The way the other kids would look at him, the way the teacher would watch him, whenever he went and sat under that sycamore tree during recess - almost as though they were all waiting for him to do something unexpectedly - made him twitchy and nervous. Why did they watch him as though he was going to do something wrong, something bad? He wasn’t bad, he was a good boy, a good son.

He was just interested in different stuff to them that was all. What was the big deal?

By the time he reached Middle-School though, he’d learnt that the expectations people - well society - had of children was that they shouldn’t be interested in macabre things. Shouldn’t wonder about murder and espionage, about criminal arson and death. Little kids should play with toys and talk about birthday parties and stuff like that.

Even in Middle-School it wasn’t really acceptable, but he didn’t ask the teachers about serial killers anymore, didn’t talk about decapitation and dismemberment. He’d learnt that keeping his head down, making ‘friends’ and getting good grades was important if he ever wanted to get into a line of work where those sorts of things weren’t so… unacceptable.

Dating as a teenager was tough, painful even, especially after he lost everything and people looked at him like he was the cause. Couldn’t they see how much he hated being alive when everyone he cared about wasn’t? Couldn’t they see how his eyes were red-rimmed, skin pale and body thin from too many nights waking up in terror, screaming for people he’d never see again? Why didn’t they see?

High-School wasn’t much better than Middle-School but the people who knew him were miles away, thanks to moving across the country, so he was a stranger in a strangeland. No one knew his story, only that he was an orphan being looked after by a foster family. They pitied him and gave him looks of sympathy, but they never looked at him with suspicion and fear so he didn’t complain.

The first girl he got further than first-base with left him with a strange feeling in his gut, like the body was different to what he expected. Too curved, too soft and gentle. His body desired more than that, craved it, and it was then he realised he was gay. Or at least, possibly bisexual. But it was only when he got to college that he managed to experience the physical intimacy of another man.

His initial conclusion was correct: he was irrevocably gay.

College was heaven for him, with it’s various classes, interesting topics and access to fascinating avenues of discussion and study. It almost made up for the years of Middle-School. Almost. But nothing could compare to the way his interests made him the perfect candidate for FBI recruitment. First of all he had to go through the customary training, standard procedure, and he relished it.

And after nearly ten years of hardwork and effort, of pain and loss, betrayal and death, one Lee ‘Grinner’ Pace was the very picture of an FBI agent - strong and imposing with his 6”3’ frame, thin but well-toned limbs, lean as a swimmer and with eyes that looked soft and warm but were built with foundations of steel. There was nothing he couldn’t handle, no case too grisly or boring or impossible to solve that could withstand his dogged determination and painstaking attention to detail. It was what made him the ‘star’ of the New York field office even though he was relatively young - compared to his colleagues - and he became the poster boy for the FBI; rising quickly through the ranks from a junior agent all the way up to SSA. A Supervisory Special Agent. There was nowhere he couldn’t go really, no avenue of federal career that was closed to him - heck, if he really wanted to, he could be unit chief, head of the regional office, could be the head of the FBI itself.

But that wasn’t Lee. He wanted to help people, not live at his desk.

Which was why he was currently standing in a burnt-out husk of an apartment, the charred remains of two unfortunate individuals at his feet, as he took in the entire scene and sighed heavily. The blackened marks on the walls that hadn’t been eaten by flame; the acrid scent of scorched remains, both organic and artificial. It drew forth painful memories for Lee, simply standing in the apartment, but he refused to allow them to take anymore of his attention from the scene than they already had. Memories were not his master, they were reminders of his past but they did not control him now; now he was the master and no flashback, no sudden trigger would stop him from figuring out this damned case and bringing two innocent victims justice.

“This looks the same as the last one.” A voice rang out behind Lee, smooth and melodic, and Lee glanced over his shoulder at the owner.

“Not exactly Bloom, but close enough for it not to be a contracted kill.” Lee replied to his second on the task-force he’d been handed a year ago in order to stop these damned arsons. “See the way the victims have been restrained - the remains of several belts tell us he tied them up, probably subjected them both to torture, killed them and then set the fire to erase all traces of his crime.”

SA Orlando Bloom - though several years older than Lee himself - respected his boss greatly. The fact that Lee had joined the New York office instead of Quantico confused Orlando, even to this day, since he knew about Lee’s dream of being a profiler in the BAU. He didn’t question him though, Lee didn’t deserve Orlando being so disrespectful as to pry into his personal life - not after all Lee had done for him in the past - and so Orlando always trusted Lee’s conclusions about killers, arsonists, rapists, terrorists and whoever else they came across working in the Big Apple.

“How do you know he tortured them?” Orlando asked, frowning slightly as he watched Lee crouch down and pick up a charred piece of leather - from one of the belts obviously - and inspect it.

“Process of elimination. You don’t go to the trouble of setting fire to an entire apartment - not as thoroughly as he does - if you have nothing but a murder to hide.” Lee explained as he fished out an evidence bag from his suit pocket and dropped the leather piece into it. Labelling it appropriately he handed it off to a nearby CSU before moving away from the victims and closer to the view the penthouse offered of New York.

“It’s his MO Bloom. First he finds a target; sometimes a single couple, sometimes a family, on occasion a loner. Then he follows them, learns about them, learns their likes and dislikes, hopes and dreams, their fears. And then, when the time is right, he pounces and uses them to satisfy his need to have power and control over another living being.” Lee hypothesised as he stared out across the city he had grown to know and love. With his height and lean frame he looked more like a statue than he did a living federal agent but the shadows in his eyes reminded Orlando of someone who was very, very real.

“Ask the M.E to check for bruising around the wrists and ankles; there may be enough tissue left to confirm my theory.” Lee ordered, not looking at Orlando who nodded nonetheless. He listened to the sound of Orlando’s footsteps as he continued to stare out across the horizon, taking in the sight of the city he had come to call home.

Consisting of five boroughs - each a county of the State of New York - New York city’s population was somewhere in the region of 8.3 million people and covering a total 303 square miles of land, New York City was one of the most culturally diverse and economically important cities in America and, indeed, the world. Because of this, ensuring that criminals were caught and took off the street became even more important in the early 21st century and with reforms to methods of policing the murder rate for the last four or so years had decreased with only 333 murders in 2013 (the lowest count since records began in 1963).

However, for all that the stats had decreased, for all that criminals were getting caught by the NYPD, the FBI dealt with more complicated matters - the criminals that crossed jurisdictions. Those who worked across huge swathes of lands and were often not connected to crimes committed in various states because of the lack of communication between local police forces. That was were the FBI came in. Cross-jurisdictions meant the criminal was now the focus of a federal investigation - an investigation that, should it lead to an arrest, would lead to a case for whoever had the better set of ‘reasons’ to prosecute said criminal.

For the last three years Lee had been working on a hunch, a deep gut-feeling that told him there was a method to the seemingly unconnected arson-attacks throughout Upper Manhattan - a retail banker whose apartment was destroyed in what, apparently, was a ‘gas leak’; the Mickelson family in Queens who all died, even their dog, when a log from the authentic fireplace fell on the thick carpeted floor of the front room; the newlywed couple about to go on their honeymoon but died in their hotel when the light fitting short-circuited… they were all random, unfortunate events, totally unconnected.

But Lee didn’t think so, he never did, and what he found when searching through the case files confirmed it; the ‘gas leak’ was an unlikely theory since the piping used in the banker’s apartment was the same piping with a hundred-percent safety rating and had no prior cases or concerns even remotely suggesting the piping could rupture. The Mickelson family’s home had recently been broken into, only a week before the fire, and Mrs Mickelson had mentioned in the police report that someone had damaged the back door, prompting the family to replace the locks. It would have been easy for the killer to have shown up and pretended to be the ‘lock-fitter’ and switched out the old locks with one’s he had a spare key too. And the newlyweds, they too could have suffered from the machinations of the killer - all he had to do was sneak into the hotel; not all that difficult to do, Lee knew since he’d done it himself to test his theory, enter the newlyweds room, unscrew the protective covering of the plug socket beside the highly-flammable curtains, connect the curtains to the socket with a thin piece of wire that would melt and thus never be found, and then disappear and wait for the inevitable flames.

Most of his fellow agents thought Lee was both a genius and a maverick. His theories, on occasion, were insane and seemed completely impossible, but he’d proven on several occasions that his theories weren’t as absurd as they first appeared. Of course, he accepted, and agreed wholeheartedly, that sometimes he sounded like he needed medicating but the theories he suggested were borne of reasoning, of applying his intellect to the problem on hand and deducing the events that transpired and brought forth the attention of the FBI.

Evangeline Lilly, one of his friends from the Academy and a fellow agent in the New York Field Office, used to jokingly refer to him as the “American Sherlock Holmes” and Lee, as much as he was loathe to admit it, found the reference flattering. But not the nicknames that inevitably came with it.

“Sir.” Orlando’s voice drew Lee back from the depths of his thoughts and into the world around him that was still bustling with activity, though less so than before. Turning to look at his fellow agent, Lee blinked several times trying to rid his eyes of the dryness that had developed thanks to his trip into his mind - blinking is governed by the Autonomic Nervous System (the ANS) and, as such, is considered an unconscious, automatic function, but sometimes, the Somatic Nervous System (the SNS) which provides voluntary control of bodily functions, can affect ANS functions. Hence the reason why Lee’s eyes felt like the Sahara.

“What is it Bloom?” Lee sighed, stepping away from the windows and closer to the slightly shorter man with his short, brown, curly hair - which was not the type of cut you’d expect to see on an FBI Agent but Orlando wasn’t a typical agent, so he wore his hair how he liked… Lee refused to think back to the blonde hair fiasco of 2005.

“McKellen’s just called; says the DA and Police Commissioner have both requested ‘additional assistance’.” Orlando replied promptly, moving to walk in time with Lee as they left the burnt-out apartment and began the long walk to the lobby twelve-floors down - the lift was being used for the bodies and they both preferred walking to being stuck in a tin box.

“What ‘additional assistance’?” Lee exclaimed as he shoved open the door to the staircase. “From who?”

Orlando was quiet for a long moment, knowing that what he said next may well get him the mother of all glares and possibly desk duty for the next month. Still, he knew he couldn’t ignore answering Lee’s question so he steeled himself for the inevitable whirlwind of anger that Lee would become.

“The BAU.”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe. God, what was he supposed to do? He didn’t know what to do, he had to do something!  
> “Richard…” Andy croaked, eyes glassy, skin pale, as he reached out with a trembling hand towards his panicking partner. “Richard go.”  
> “I- I can’t leave you Andy!” Richard cried as he fumbled with his jacket - God why wouldn’t it come off!  
> “It’s too late for me Rich… get out.” Andy ordered, steel in his voice even though it was weak and raspy. He'd been shot in the gut twice and he knew he'd lost too much blood. They both did. There was nothing that could be done for him now.

**_“When the Fox hears the Rabbit scream he comes a-runnin', but not to help.”_ ** **~ Thomas Harris _._**

* * *

_He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe. God, what was he supposed to do? He didn’t know what to do, he had to do something!_

_“Richard…” Andy croaked, eyes glassy, skin pale, as he reached out with a trembling hand towards his panicking partner. “Richard go.”_

_“I- I can’t leave you Andy!” Richard cried as he fumbled with his jacket - God why wouldn’t it come off!_

_“It’s too late for me Rich… get out.” Andy ordered, steel in his voice even though it was weak and raspy. He'd been shot in the gut twice and he knew he'd lost too much blood. They both did. There was nothing that could be done for him now._

_"No! I can still- I can-" Words failed him as Richard stared into Andy's eyes and his hands pressed down on the wounds in his partner's stomach, blood staining his jacket and welling in the lines of his palms. What could he do? he knew, rationally; that Andy was beyond saving; that their back-up was still too far out; that even now his jacket was saturated with far too much of Andy's blood from the gunshot wounds. There wasn't anything Richard could do for him..._

_But he still couldn't leave him behind._

_"Richard!" Andy spat, his face pained but his eyes clearer than they had been only moments ago. The sharpness of Andy's words drew Richard from his panic-induced stupor. "Get out of here. Now!"_

_Andy's second-wind had come in the wake of a revelation for the older of the pair, a revelation that Richard was slowly beginning to grasp, though not to the extent he needed to in order to understand Andy's sudden determination for Richard to 'get out'._

_"Andy-" Richard began only for the older agent to silence him when he gripped one of his hands pressing down on the bullet wounds. The grasp was stronger than Richard expected from the older man, bleeding out as he was._

_"That's an order agent." Andy's voice was pure iron, it brokered no room for argument but, even so, Richard refused to leave his partner behind._

_"I'm not going anywhere without you Andy." Richard declared, refusing to back down form Andy's intense stare. "So I'm taking you with me sir."_

_Without waiting for a response from Andy, Richard manoeuvred himself into a crouch and dragged Andy slowly to his feet, trying to ignore the way his partner cursed from the pain of being forced to move, as he stood. The clear height difference between them made it difficult for Richard to support Andy but he managed to wrap an arm around his partner's waist - mindful of the gunshot wounds - and gripped Andy's arm._

_They moved slowly through the warehouse they'd tracked the Unsub to, weaving in and out of boxes and crates filled with whatever, and Richard did his best to not jostle Andy's form too much. By the time they'd reached the door to the corridor Richard recalled pelting down not ten minutes ago, Andy was flagging and nearing unconsciousness. Opening the door Richard registered a difference in the air, the air in the corridor smelt sharp and clear but the air in the large room behind them was... dull and disorientating._

_It reminded him of-_

_"Gas!" Richard exclaimed, realising what it was that had worried Andy so; the Unsub's plan was to burn the damned warehouse. With them inside! "Shit!"_

_Looking for a way out, dismissing each of the steel doors along the corridor since Richard knew they were all locked and would take too much time to try and force open, his sharp eyes spotted a window on the far end of the corridor; approximately a metre in height and two in width. As the warehouse was of a single-storey design - the corridor they were stood in was the way to the offices - there would be no great leap from several feet in the air, no need to pray to Gods Richard didn't believe in for their ankles to not snap._

_Though he was tempted to pray to every single deity he knew for them to reach the window and escape before the Unsub lit the proverbial, and probably literal, match beneath their feet._

_Apologising silently to Andy, since he was certain his partner was so close to unconsciousness that it didn't matter what Richard said or did, Richard dragged his partner towards the window as quickly as he could without causing Andy too much pain. His quicker walk than before still elicited a number of pained moans and gasps from Andy however but that couldn't be helped if they didn't want to be fried feds._

_It felt as though he had been dragging Andy for hours, years, when it had only taken several short minutes for Richard and his partner to reach the window - which Richard realised was a single pane of double-glazed glass. The catch on it looked to be rusted shut so Richard forewent struggling with it and instead drew his 9mm pistol from its holster on his belt. The safety was on so he gripped the handle tightly and swung it down in an arc from above his head._

_The glass shattered loudly, shrill and sharp in the silence of the corridor and Richard wasted no time in re-holstering his gun and hoisting Andy up, arms hooked under Andy's armpits and over the ledge of the window before dropping his partner down onto the cold concrete outside the warehouse._

_Swinging his legs over the ledge Richard took a deep breath of the clear, cold evening air and pushed himself forward, off the ledge and away from Andy's prone form leaning against the warehouse wall._

_Just as his feet touched the ground, knees bent slightly to absorb the shock of landing, the gas inside the warehouse ignited and threw him forward several feet. His lungs screamed for oxygen as the air around him was burned up by the blast. His head slammed into the concrete, making him black out for a long moment, and he could feel something trickling down the front of his face, getting in his eyes and making it difficult for him to see._

_Rolling over onto his back Richard took in the sight of the warehouse burning with a detached sort of acceptance. His eyes roamed over the burning wreckage, blinking away the blood that obscured his vision, before they settled on the remains of the window he'd jumped from only moments ago. There was something beneath it and Richard's sluggish mind battled to identify it..._

"ANDY!" Richard cried out, eyes shooting open as he sat bolt-right up in bed. "ANDY NO!"

"Richard! Richard!" Someone shouted from beyond the closed door of the bedroom, the sound of frantic hammering on the door causing Richard to flail in his bed.

"ANDY!" Richard screeched again, eyes wild as he fought against the blankets tangled around his legs in the dark room lit only by the dim light shining through the window.

The door to the room opened, letting in a burst of bright, artificial light that caused Richard to recoil and try to escape its blare.

"Richard!" The voice, which Richard dimly recognised, called again, louder and more insistent than before, as Richard threw himself out of the bed, legs still tangled in the blankets, and landed with a loud 'thump' on the laminate flooring.

It was the shock of landing on the cool floor, coupled with the flaring up of an injury to his side, that released Richard from his dream-induced confusion and he lay panting heavily on the ground for a long moment before he spoke, voice low and ragged. "Graham?"

"Aye mate, it's me." A quiet huff of relief could be heard from the other side of the room, near to the still open door, as Graham stepped slowly into the darkened room. He slowly made his way around the bed until he was on the same side as Richard, who hauled himself up and sat heavily on the bed, the blankets left forgotten on the ground pooled around his feet.

Graham reached over to the bedside cabinet and flicked on the small lamp which illuminated the room in a soft, golden glow, before he sat on the bed beside Richard; their shoulders touching. In the gentle light Graham took in the sight of his friend of nearly ten years; the tired eyes, tear-stained cheeks and unhealthy pallor of his skin in silence. Richard had suffered greatly, of that there was no doubt, and Graham could do little to ease the younger man of his pain, no matter how dearly he wished to.

“I didn’t wake Gwen and Honour did I?” Richard mumbled, shoulders hunched in embarrassment as he refused to look at his friend, fearful of what he may well discover should his eyes catalogue Graham’s body language. The natural ability to implicitly comprehend the meaning behind body behaviour, inherent in nearly all humans from birth, had been absent in Richard and had thus resulted in his learning to recognise that which was instinctual to most. And as a result he was intimately more aware of the hidden meanings behind every shoulder shrug, minute twitch and tensing muscle.

“Nah. I’m pretty sure nothing short of Armageddon would wake them two.” Graham replied, voice artificially casual in a manner reminiscent of a lover attempting to downplay a lie to a suspicious partner. Not that Graham was a deceitful lover, indeed he had married Gwen not long after he’d become a cop in the NYPD (the New York Police Department for those who do not know) and he had never once strayed from his oath to love and honour her, hence the name of their daughter, unlike many of his ex-colleagues from his days as a police officer. Now that he was a seasoned federal agent – having served for nearly twenty years in the FBI (the Federal Bureau of Investigation; a sort of national police force that sort to protect America from primarily Internal, but also External, threats) – Graham had never once lied to his wife, no matter the situation, and had been rewarded with one of the most long-lasting and emotionally fruitful unions Richard had ever heard of. But he was still an awful liar when it came to deceiving his friends. Hence why he refused to play poker with them.

“I’m sorry.” Richard all-but whispered as he ducked his head, shoulders hunching up even further than they had before, and fingers gripping the cream-coloured bedsheet beneath him. Though he had not looked at his friend, Richard’s sensitive hearing picked up the false casualness of Graham’s words, the slightly forced amusement and the sympathy that he tried to mask with his friendly reassurances. It made Richard feel somewhat resentful of his ability to seek out a lie, to know that the truth was not being told or shown in all its accuracy.

In truth, Gwen had heard Richard’s muffled cried from the guest bedroom of the suburban home of Mr and Mrs McTavish when she had gotten up to relieve herself in the master bedroom’s en suite. She had quickly woken her husband and ensured that he was awake enough to help their friend before she had watched him leave their room; she had then left the room herself and entered their daughter’s room so as to ensure that she would not be disturbed by Richard’s night-time distress.

“Don’t be.” Graham said softly, reaching out a hand and placing it comfortingly upon Richard’s shoulder. Graham’s hands were large and calloused, from many years of hard work both as a child and an adult; for Graham’s family were naturally land-owners and he had spent many of his formative years working on his grandfather’s ranch with the cattle and horses. It had only been when he had reached his early teenage years that things had changed and his mother had taken him to New York to live with her family, and Graham had not seen his grandfather’s ranch ever since; though Gwen had suggested he visit once or twice in the past, he felt uncomfortable returning to a period of his life which was now shadowed with parental understanding. “Not for this Richard, you’re like family to Gwen and I; Honour sees you as the Uncle she never had. I’d rather you wake us every night for a year than for you to try and hide your pain from us.”

The words were ones that Richard desperately needed to hear, but it was the feeling, the conviction and determination behind them that he needed even more; to know that he was not a burden to his friend, that though he was damaged and a little bit broken, Graham did not judge him harshly for that which he could not control. To not be judged for being unable to rid oneself of nightmares is a powerful thing indeed, for it is easy for others to insult and offend with their lack of consideration, for their lack of comprehension that, sometimes, the mind is far more unruly and wild than even the most undomesticated of animals that roam the earth. So for Graham to not judge him; to not grow frustrated with his night-time terrors; to not mutter and moan when he thinks Richard cannot hear; in essence to not be cruel and destroy Richard’s fragile self-worth, meant more to him than the words that Graham had uttered. For words are meaningless when they are not spoken with conviction.

 _Thank you_ , Richard did not say aloud, _thank you for being so understanding, for not judging me, for not throwing me out after the first time, thank you_. Instead he relaxed; shoulders no longer as hunched; eyes no longer trained on the ground beneath his feet, and conjured up a small smile, which he was certain Graham could see, as he stared out of the window facing them both that looked out onto the McTavish’s backyard.

“I wish they’d stop.” He said instead, voice as level as he could manage through it was rawer than he wished it to be. “I just want to close my eyes and not be back... _there_. Is that so much to ask? To want to go to sleep and not wake up screaming for a dead man, to not be terrified out of my wits, to not start violently whenever a car exhaust backfires, or to flash back when I smell gas... is it really too much for me to have _some_ _damn_ _peace_?”

Richard’s voice had progressively become louder and louder until he was near shouting and Graham still did not move to quieten him, even though Honour was still sleeping in her room and the guest room door was open. He did however squeeze Richard’s shoulder tightly, offering him nonverbal support and compassion, and the sensation of it robbed Richard of his anger as he realised how loud he had become.

“It’s not fair Graham.” Richard whispered brokenly, head hanging, shoulders again hunched, and he felt the sting of fresh tears erupting from his eyes. Still Graham did not speak, knowing that more would come of Richard grieving and weeping out his frustrations now without distraction, than if he spoke meaningless platitudes of how ‘it will get better’ and ‘you just need time to heal’. For sometimes, a man is broken by what they experience and all the words ever spoken cannot make them whole again. “I couldn’t even save him... after everything I did... he still died.”

Graham’s heart broke to hear the distress in his friends voice but he still did not speak, though it was hard for him to remain silent when Richard was obviously looking for reassurance. So instead he pulled Richard towards him via the hand on his shoulder and enveloped him in a hug, refusing to let go even though Richard struggled against him for several moments before surrendering and weeping silently into Graham’s shoulder.

Some would say that to see a man breakdown is pathetic, that it makes them ‘unmanly’ and weak, but the truth is that it takes a strong man to admit to his pain, to allow himself to weep openly and without restraint; for there is a strength in giving form to the pain that swirls about inside ourselves through the medium of tears and screams and shouts, cries and wails of despair and anger. Graham was a firm believer that if you held your pain inside, if you refused to let it out even in the privacy of your own home, then you were doing yourself more harm than good and society could go hang itself if it thought he would roll-over and follow its every rule. So he held Richard as he wept, giving him the support, not through words that can be forgotten in the light of day, that was desperately needed for his friend to begin to truly heal.

For Richard the chance to let out all that he held shackled within brought forth a torrent of emotion, of long-hidden pain and grief that had accumulated over the long years of his life, that left his body through tears and muffled sobs and dry hiccups until his tears ran dry and his sobs died out, leaving him feeling exhausted; mentally; physically; emotionally.  It was at this point that Graham spoke, his voice low and soothing as he slowly released Richard from his hold.

“You’ve kept all that pain to yourself for months and it’s done more harm than good. I can’t tell you that things will be good, that you won’t wake up screaming, that the smell of gas won’t make you flash back or the sound of a car exhaust make you panic. But I can tell you, I can promise you, that I’ll be there for you; I’ll never let you go through this alone Richard, neither me nor Gwen will. I can tell you it’ll get better with time, you might never get over it, but you’ll learn to live with it and sometimes, sometimes that’s all we _can_ do.” Leaning down, Graham picked up the blankets piled on the ground and stood up. He turned and stared down at his friend whose eyes were red around the edges, cheeks flushed and hair tousled. Placing the blankets on the bed beside Richard, Graham rested a warm hand on his shoulder, staring intently into Richard’s emotion-filled eyes. “Life isn’t easy, it’s a challenge and it’s often unfair. We have to do what we can with the cards we’re dealt but we don’t have to give up when our lives are turned upside... we keep going, keep fighting, no matter how hard it is, no matter how impossible it seems. Because that’s what makes life worth living in the end, reaching the other side of the things that go wrong in our lives so we appreciate all that goes right, all that we have to be thankful for.”

Richard nodded mutely; unable to speak for fear that he would break down and weep again at the wisdom of Graham’s words and the emotion behind them. Richard’s life had not been easy, not by a long shot, but neither had Graham’s; and it was this that tied them together, as brother’s not by blood but by choice, and it was this that gave Richard strength when he felt he had none.

“Try and sleep Richard.” Graham ordered gently, moving away from his friend to the open door. “Remember Andy for the way he made you laugh; the way he would glare when you and James would steal his coffee; how he would roll his eyes behind my back and how he would toss that damned ring of his around the bull pen. Don’t remember him as a victim Richard; remember him as your friend and honour him as a fellow agent.”

With those wise words, solemn and imploring, Graham left Richard to his thoughts and the night outside his window. And Richard, realising that he had forgotten how Andy used to smile; how he would laugh at Aidan’s antics in the middle of the day; the way he’d make paper plans and toss them around the bull pen aiming for Graham’s office; understood that he had forgotten his friend and had seen only his failure. He had insulted Andy’s memory, the memory of his friend, by using him to justify his self-loathing and grief. So he made a promise, swore an oath that he would not break. He swore to remember Andy as the person he’d been in life, not the victim he’d been in death, to honour his memory by fighting to rise above his own personal failings and to hunt down the bastard that had taken his partner from him.

Graham may not have wished for Richard to choose vengeance as his cure for his grief but he could not fault him for it, understanding that Richard had lost a brother the day Andy had died and could not let sleeping dragons lie... he would seek out the arsonist, find him wherever he hid and would ensure Andy had justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this has taken so long to update, I've been busy with my other fics as well as battling my depression (which is being a right arse) and dealing with minor family emergencies (understatement actually). Anyway, I finally managed to get this up but it's not been beta'd so if you see any mistakes please holler and point them out to me (I am awful at noticing my own spelling/grammar errors).  
> As usual, please kudos and leave comments to tell me what you think since this is going to be a monster to write...  
> Kathryn xx

**Author's Note:**

> I'm planning on adding the next chapter the moment I have access to my notes and can finish writing it (that will teach me to leave my notes in uni when I go home early due to bad weather).


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